


Cheek to cheek

by PudentillaMcMoany



Series: Like a Gambler's Lucky Streak [2]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slash, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 19:30:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5797012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PudentillaMcMoany/pseuds/PudentillaMcMoany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Segundus and Childermass are stranded in Paris without magic and without a sou. Oh, and it's 1937.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cheek to cheek

John lays on the squeaky, lumpy bed, reading a book. Or better: he would like to be reading a book. As it is, he isn’t capable to concentrate on anything except his grumbling stomach. In all his life (seems like centuries ago now, which is only apt, he guesses), he has never considered just how much intellectual endeavours are dependent on a full belly. Now he thinks he understand. He has had to reconsider a lot of his positions in the year they have been stranded in this magic-forsaken place.

He hears Childermass’ French, heavy with Yorkshire accent, from the stairs. It seems like he’s arguing with the landlady, the ponderous Madame Monce, about their rent. It also seems like he’s losing the argument. Giddy with hunger as he is, Segundus barely registers the brief lurch of panic that crosses him (what if we become homeless?), before returning to his lounging position on the bed. A good thing about hunger is, it makes a stoic out of every man.

He hears Childermass’ steps on the stairs, and then the door opens. Childermass has some groceries that he puts on the table; a small loaf of bread, one egg. Two cigarettes, one for each for them.

They wolf down the bread with what remains of their margarine and the hard-boiled egg. If possible, the supper makes Segundus hungrier, and he wants some tea. He says as much, which makes Childermass laugh. The lay on the bed again, smoking their cigarettes, Childermass’ head on Segundus’ lap. Segundus strokes his short hair in silence; looks at his hands and thinks of how they used to be dirty with ink all the time, how endearing he found it. Now they’re even rougher than before, and scarred from washing dishes all day. He takes one in his own hand, as if he’s weighing it, then presses a kiss on its back.

“We will have to sell the gramophone.”

Segundus gazes at the ugly big thing in the corner, an extravagant purchase of their first days in Paris, when they had the money and were eager to try- well, everything, in fact. The new inventions, the sense of freedom, the cheap wine. He can’t help but groan in mourning, just a little.

“Well it’s either that or we leave the house.”

“Ouff..!”

“...Or we could use the money to go back to England.”

“It’s not _our_ England, so what’s the point?”

“In _this_ England they don’t want us hanged at least. Seems like an improvement to me.”

They both laugh. Hanging is not a very laughable prospect, but they have always had a weird sense of humour.

“No, let’s sell it. It’s only right. We have only one record now anyway. Was growing tired of it.”

Childermass gives him a lopsided look, as if he’s trying to assess his feelings. Satisfied with what he’s seen, he rolls on his stomach, plants a kiss on Segundus’ cheek and puts on their only record. He is about to return to the bed, but Segundus raises a hand to stop him.

“A last dance, perhaps?”

Even if it is Segundus who proposed it, Childermass ends up having to take him by the hand and drag him out of bed. Then it is not so much a dance as an embraced stumbling across the room, while Fred Astaire, in the background, sings of heaven and cheek-to-cheek dances. Childermass makes Segundus turn once, which sets his head spinning; it’s an intoxicating sensation, like being drunk. He puts his arms around Childermass’ neck, his head on his shoulder. Childermass kisses his temple, shoves cold hands under his jumper.

“When we have the money I will buy you all the records you like.”

“Will you?”

“Yes.” Says Childermass, with a gravity in his eyes that makes Segundus want to kiss him. _Yes_ , he says again, later, when Segundus presses him on the bed and undoes the buttons on his shirt.

 

They sell the gramophone the day after, along with the Fred Astaire record. It’s a good day, they make enough money to pay the rent for the whole month. That night they feast on bread with proper cheese, and a good bottle of wine. Afterwards they go to see a concert in Monmartre, a small luxury they both agree on, and are recompensed by the miraculous sight of a moustached man who plays heavenly jazz manouche with burnt, clumsy-fingered hands. In the small club, the air thick with smoke like in some conjurer’s show, it feels almost like magic.

Later on Segundus wants to meet the band, and Childermass ends up reading the man his cards, promising good fortune. “Obviously!” Answers the man, Jean, with a beautiful laugh; he insists on reading Childermass’ cards then, and with a knowing smile he reads him of adventures, and a good life. Hard as it is to believe it, it’s impossible not to feel lifted by the promise. When they leave the club, John and John laugh drunkenly, and walk the streets in each other’s arms.

The next year, Segundus decides to go off to Spain and chronicle the war for a British newspaper. Childermass follows him, and for all that war is a lousy affair and smart men shouldn’t have anything to do with it, he enlists with the anarchists. When he is wounded they both go back to England, which is not really going back, as it’s not _their_ England, but it feels like a sort of return anyway. Segundus’ memoir sells well. When the war reaches them in their small village in Yorkshire, Segundus is writing for the Manchester Guardian; he continues doing so for the years to come, and then comes the peace, and the novels, and relative fame, and blessed comfort. They have adventures, they travel the world; they make these new times their home. It’s not an uncomfortable one.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to some jazz/swing from the 30s and this came to me and I really wanted to write it. It was supposed to be "Segundus and Childermass are happy bohemians in Paris hon hon hon", but they're not exactly happy, aren't they? They will manage though! Django Reinhardt promised them.  
> The premise to this is: they've been discovered buggering they are going to be hanged so they decide to flee London by means of the King's Roads and GET LOST and end up in Paris without magic! Which is totally not possible in canon but eh.  
> A lot of Orwell went into this.


End file.
